


All I Ask Is a Second Chance

by VagrantWriter



Series: Second Chances [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fix-It, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-02-04
Packaged: 2018-03-09 02:16:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3232541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VagrantWriter/pseuds/VagrantWriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Asha comes to collect her brother before his folly can get him killed, even if she has to drag him kicking and screaming back home.</p><p>Theon isn't even sure where home is anymore, but now that everything's come tumbling down around his head, he can't just leave things unfinished with Robb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

Asha was pleased and not pleased. Pleased that she had talked some sense into her halfwit of a brother, but still not pleased that he’d done something so stupid. And really, she hadn’t so much talked sense into Theon as into his men, who’d turned quickly at the prospect of returning to the western coast to raid. That was what they were born for, after all. It was a pity Theon couldn’t see that.

She caught him throwing dirty looks at her as they rode along, but mostly he avoided her gaze and hung towards the back of the party so he didn’t have to listen to the men laugh at him.

“I hope you’re happy,” he’d grumbled sometime on the third day out from Winterfell. “You stand every chance of inheriting the Iron Islands now that you’ve made me the Greyjoy who ran.”

“You wouldn’t have _had_ to run if you’d just followed our father’s orders.”

He looked away again. He was probably still smarting from being torn out of bed and carried away at his sister’s orders. He’d fought like a cat, saying that if they were all too cowardly to hold Winterfell then he’d simply hold it himself. A blow to the head had put a stop to that. For a few hours, at least.

Honestly, Asha didn’t care if he forgave her or not. She didn’t live for anyone’s approval, and the sooner he learned to do the same, the better.

On the sixth day, they crested a hill, and the breeze brought the scent of salt on the air. She’d never gone so long without it before. Down by the shoreline, the ship that would carry them home sat moored in the natural harbor there. Asha’s feet ached to have the movement of the ocean under them again. Maybe it was the lack of salt and sea that had addled her baby brother’s head. He’d been gone from _this_ , his roots, for too long.

“Cheer up, brother,” she said, seeing his long face as she pulled her horse up to his. “We’re going home. I’m taking you back where you belong.”

She urged her horse onwards with the other men and was halfway down the hill before she realized Theon was not following her. Her frustrated sigh was lost on the wind as she wheeled back to see him looking out over the water pensively. It was a new look for him.

“Theon!”

He snapped back to himself and gathered the reins in his hands. But instead of urging the horse forward, he swung around. “I’m not going.”

 _Idiot_! Was he really going to return to Winterfell to take his ill-advised stand there?

“I will have you dragged onboard.”

Theon’s horse whinnied impatiently.

“There’s something I need to do.”

“Theon, get down here now.”

He shook his head. “Tell Father I died. Tell him I made a stand against the Starks and that he’d be proud of me.”

_Oh for—_

“Get. Down here. Now.”

He dug his heels into the horse’s side and took off with a gallop.

“Theon!”

Rider and horse disappeared over the other side of the hill. Asha cursed and began to spur her own horse, but Dagmer Cleftjaw put himself in her way. “Best let him go,” the old raider said.

“Get out of my way.”

“Do you really think you can convince him to come back?”

“I’ll drag him back.”

Dagmer shook his head and didn’t move his horse. “Lad’s already made up his mind.”

“He’ll get himself killed.”

He gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Out of my way,” she repeated.

“I think he’d rather die on his own terms.” Dagmar scratched at his chin, the thick beard that just barely covered the axe wound on his face. She could catch flashes of pink, mauled flesh underneath. “Although, I _don’t_ think he intends to die. That look on his face was not that of a man seeking out death.”

“No, it was the look of a clod who doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into.”

He smiled, making the horrible scar more prominent as it stretched. “No, miss. It was the look of a man with unfinished business.”


	2. Chapter 2

Theon rode a long time without stopping. Which gave him a long time to think and rethink this decision. But then again, he’d had a long time to think and rethink his decision to take Winterfell, too, and that hadn’t changed his mind.

Funny, he could still remember the images in his head of what was _supposed_ to happen. His father sending a whole fleet of men to keep the North’s stronghold, as well as words of a job well done. _Congratulations, my son, Prince of the Iron Islands, Prince of Winterfell._ His titles. No longer a “hostage” or “ward,” but a proper lord and prince.

He’d even given some thought to Robb. He’d be angry, of course, but he’d see the wisdom in bending the knee. The thought of the Starks, who had all looked down their noses as him and used him as a whipping boy, bowing before him in their own hall had given him giddy chills.

“You were kind to me,” he’d say, letting Robb get to his feet after an appropriate amount of bowing, “and now I will be kind to you. I name you, Robb Stark, Steward of Winterfell, to rule in my stead.” And Robb would bow his head and thank him. It _would_ be a kindness, to allow the Starks to keep their roots after they’d torn Theon’s out from under his feet.

These dreams had turned to brittle ash almost from the beginning. Instead of _accepting_ that they had been outsmarted, the people of Winterfell had rallied against him, worked against him at every turn. If they’d just learned to _accept_ defeat, if Bran and Rickon hadn’t _run_ , he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have had to—

Branches whipped at his face, and he shook his head, swatting them away. He couldn’t allow himself to become distracted. He pushed Smiler onwards within renewed haste.

Besides, it was a stupid thing to be so upset over. They had been the _miller’s_ boys, as baseborn as you got. Sure, Theon had known them, had even fucked the miller’s wife on several occasions. She had been a good lay, but not worth all this…thought.

And yet think about her he did, and her two boys, whose heads he’d desecrated beyond recognition and left to rot on pikes. He wouldn’t have done it, if there had been any other way. But there _hadn’t_. He’d needed to do it to hold Winterfell, to keep _his own_ men from turning on him.

Except…except, he _hadn’t_ held Winterfell. And his men _had_ turned against him. It was all for nothing.

A panicked thought occurred to Theon as he rode at a mad dash through the forest. What did they call men who slaughtered defenseless children? Raiders, maybe, if you were on Pyke. In the North, you’d just be a murderer.

Smiler was growing tired, but Theon didn’t stop. If he stopped to rest, he wouldn’t even have the sound of hoof beats to drown out those thoughts.

If only his father had taken the proposal! He’d had images before of the welcome he was _supposed_ to receive as Balon Greyjoy’s last remaining son and living heir. He was supposed to lead the fleet to Casterly Rock, show everyone what Theon Greyjoy was made of. Back then he’d dreamed of Robb smiling at him as he disembarked his vessel, how proud he would be as they embraced as brothers.

“Now and always,” Robb would whisper in his ear. “I’ve missed you, Theon. Welcome back.”

So maybe that was it, why he was doing this now. A careless remark Asha had thrown his way— _where you belong_. He didn’t belong at Pyke. He was a shamed son, returning empty-handed. His father would never accept him back, if he ever even had. And what did he stand to inherit? Barren rocks full of men who hated him, who willingly turned on him at the words of a woman? No, he wouldn’t be going back there.

He _could_ take the Black, start over up at the Wall. He could go beyond the reach of the law and send Robb a raven telling him the truth about his brothers. The idea of vanishing was almost tempting, but that would mean letting go of Theon Greyjoy, becoming a nobody. He couldn’t do it.

Smiler broke through the trees to a bluff overlooking a river valley. Theon dismounted and patted the horse’s neck absently, feeling the animal’s sweat under his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he’d ridden, but the dawn was beginning to break over the ridge. Riverrun lay spread before them, and all up and down the valley, tents dotted the landscape. From his vantage point, Theon couldn’t see the sigil, but he could see the gray and white of House Stark.

Of Robb.

 

***

 

“Your Grace!”

Robb looked up from Jeyne’s ministrations. It was mesmerizing the way she wound and unwound the bandages on his arm, and he sometimes found himself caught up in watching her. The guard’s hail brought him back to awareness a bit abashedly. He should not be so easily distracted, especially not while wounded.

“Yes,” he called.

“A prisoner.”

“Which one?” All this business with prisoners lately. First the Kingslayer escaping—no, _being allowed_ to escape. Now Lord Karstark was baying for Lannister blood, which happened to take the form of two innocent boys. What next? A full-scale mutiny because he refused to slaughter innocent children?

“We just captured him, Your Grace,” the guard said, snapping to attention as he entered the King’s private chambers. “He surrendered himself and said he _must_ speak with you. He was very adamant on that point.”

Was he giving private consults with each and every prisoner now? This hardly seemed like something to bring before a King. A King who was very, very busy.

The guard seemed to pick up on this because he was quick to add, “He says he has news of your brothers. He’s wearing kraken armor.”

Robb stood, startling Jeyne. “He has news from Winterfell?” Whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. On the other hand, it might well be important. Just the day before, the raven had arrived: Winterfell lay ashes. The Ironborn had left no one alive. Lord Bolton’s men were doing what they could to drive the last of the enemy soldiers from their lands, but it was all too late to do his brothers any good. They’d been killed, murdered, by a man he’d once considered a brother as well. “I’ll see him.”

Jeyne hurried to finish her work and did a sloppy job of it, looping and tucking the bandage loosely. Robb didn’t mind and in fact was grateful given the circumstances. The girl had a sort of intuitiveness to her that made her especially adept at this sort of work. And he appreciated that she helped him at all, especially when her mother disapproved.

Well, disapproved was not the word. Lady Westerling despised him. He hadn’t tried to negotiate with her since that first time, which had left him with a black eye. No, Lady Westerling would rather the arrow had pierced his heart instead of his shoulder.

Robb followed the guard down into the dungeons below Riverrun. He passed the cell where they were keeping the two Lannister boys, if you could really call if a cell. If you could really call the cellars dungeons. They weren’t exactly pleasant accommodations, but he was willing to bet they were fair more comfortable than anything most of his men had to sleep in.

They came to the end of the hall. The guard opened the door at the last cell and held it open for him. “Would you like me to accompany you, Your Grace?”

“Is the prisoner dangerous?”

“Couldn’t say, Your Grace. He’s been disarmed, obviously, and I dare say you could probably overpower him easily enough.” The guard cracked an easy grin, then remembered who he was speaking to and wiped it away. “I’ll wait out here, Your Grace. Call if he gives you any trouble.”

Robb nodded and entered the room.

And froze.

The person he had least expected to see what sitting on a pallet before him. At the sound of his entrance, Theon stood and smiled as if hardly a day had passed since they’d last seen each other. As if he hadn’t turned his back on their friendship. As if he hadn’t…

“You murdered my brothers!” A blankness overcame his mind, and the next thing he knew, he had Theon up against the wall, hands around his neck. _Don’t you smile at me. Don’t you_ dare _smile at me._

Theon gagged and clawed at the hands on his throat. His legs kicked weakly. His face grew red as a whine whistled its way through his open mouth, drawing for air.

“Your Grace?” It was the guard, come to investigate the noise.

“I’m fine.” Robb forced his hands to relax. “Get back to your post.” He took a step back and allowed Theon to collapse, coughing, to the ground. He couldn’t kill him, not here and not like that. Not before he could ask—

“Why?”

Theon rubbed at his throat where Robb’s handprints were beginning to turn red against his skin. His entire body shook as he drew in great, wracking breaths. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

Robb knelt down to his level. “ _Why_ did you do it, Theon?”

Theon regained his breath enough to speak. “It didn’t go the way I planned. Nothing did.”

Robb grabbed him by the collar and shook him. It sent a lancing pain through his wounded arm, but right now his building anger numbed all other sensation. “You killed my brothers! You burned Winterfell! Why?”

Theon’s head rolled back and forth. “That’s why I came back. I came to tell you I didn’t hurt your brothers. It was a lie.” He put his hands over Robb’s, a silent plea for him to stop. When Robb did, his brow was knitted in confusion. “ _What_ about burning Winterfell? I left just over a week ago and it was still standing.”

“Wait, wait.” Robb gritted his teeth to keep from shaking more answers out of his prisoner. It looked like Theon’s brains had been rattled enough. “You’re telling me you didn’t kill Bran and Rickon and put their heads on pikes for everyone to see? All the ravens bearing this news were…lies? Why? Why would you do that?”

“I don’t know. I was afraid. They…ran away and I…couldn’t face… I took Winterfell, yes, but I didn’t _burn_ it, I swear!”

Robb released his collar roughly. “Where are my brothers?”

“I don’t know. B-but they have Hodor…and the wildling woman with them. And Summer and Shaggydog. They could still be out there.” Theon drew close to the wall, away from him, and Robb wished it didn’t hurt so much to see his former friend shrink away from him like that. “I…just thought you should know.”

Robb sighed, stood, and ran a hand through his hair.

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Theon’s breathing began to even out in the silence.

“How can I trust anything you say?”

No reply.

“Even if it’s true, even if Bran and Rickon are alive and unharmed…” Robb turned to look at the man huddled in the corner. Growing up, Theon had always been taller than him, older. When had he gotten so small? “…it doesn’t change anything, Theon.” That was a lie. It changed a great deal of things. Search parties would need to be sent, his mother would have to be told… Gods, his mother! What would she say? None of this, however, changed Theon Greyjoy’s fate. “I’ll have your head.”

Theon looked like he hadn’t been expecting that, as if he’d truly thought this mitigating information would nullify his treasonous acts. It near broke Robb’s heart to see the hope drain from his face.

“Robb, please.” On timid hands and knees, he crawled forward. “I did wrong, I know. But I…I regret it. I’m _sorry_. I thought…we’re brothers.”

“I thought so too.” Robb turned in disgust. He didn’t want Theon’s groveling. He didn’t even really want Theon’s head.

The cell was suddenly very small, suffocating. He couldn’t stay there a moment longer.

“I’ll stay your execution until I hear word of Bran or Rickon, and then we will have the truth of it. I can’t guarantee your safety should my mother learn of your presence here, though.”

Theon gave a small sob and buried his face in his hands.

Robb left without looking back.


	3. Chapter 3

He’d done it again. Deluded himself to the way things would be. Theon sat on his pallet, knees to his chest, and wondered why he was so stupid. He hadn’t expected Robb to forgive him, not exactly. But maybe he’d recognize the honor in returning to him with this vital news of his brothers. Or maybe the years of friendship between them would grant him some mercy, some chance to make it up to Robb.

Now he saw that there was nothing he _could_ do. He’d been a fool to think there ever had been.

His thoughts came creeping in the silence. Two little bodies, the way the younger one had cried when his brother’s throat had been slit, the look in his eyes when he knew he was next. It was strange. Theon knew he hadn’t been the one to do it—that had been Reek—but in his memory, it was always his hand holding the knife.

“I could have said no,” Theon said to himself in the silence of the cell. “I _should_ have said no. I should have _stopped_ him. I shouldn’t have listened to him.”

He cringed in on himself and couldn’t even justify to himself that they had only been the miller’s boys. There was nothing left to protect himself with. The utter disgust on Robb’s face had stripped him down to the bone and left him bare. He wished now that he’d gone to the Wall. He’d give anything to be rid of Theon Greyjoy.

 

***

 

Robb knew a great deal of being a lord was tedium. He’d grown up at Lord Eddard Stark’s heir, so none of this was new to him. He hadn’t known, however, just how much tedium multiplied upon being made King. There were nonstop meetings to attend, war councils to convene, battle strategies to be planned, daily consults with his bannermen. The Greatjon wanted to know what their next move was; Lord Karstark wanted to know when he could expect to taste more Lannister blood; Lord Bolton remained silent during his meetings but afterwards would come up and whisper in his ear about how this wasn’t a good idea or that was a poor decision. And none of that even covered the minutiae of things that needed to be managed: rations, housing, horses, weapons, men, etc.

Everyone wanted something from him, like a hundred clawing hands trying to rip pieces from him, as large as they could take. Practicing with his sword, honing his skill, had been his one daily reprieve, but now, with his wounded arm, he couldn’t even do that. There were no distractions, only when Jeyne came to tend his wound. She was quiet, and he appreciated that.

His thoughts were not quiet, though. He kept thinking of Bran and Rickon, lost and alone somewhere. Maybe they’d gone to a nearby lord’s stronghold for protection, or to the Wall to be with Jon. He just _had_ to believe they were still alive, and that was why he had to trust Theon’s word.

He thought about Theon, too. A lot. Even when it wasn’t appropriate. In one of his war council meetings, he’d found his mind drifting to the smile Theon had given him when he’d first entered that cell. For the briefest of moments, even before anger had set in, it had almost been like before. Before any of this King in the North business had started.

That must have been what drew him back to Theon’s cell two days later, even though he’d told himself he wouldn’t lay eyes on the traitor until the execution. And yet here he found himself, on a restless night, bare feet sliding along the dank flagstones of Riverrun’s dungeons. He ordered Theon’s cell unlocked and went in, torch held high. It appeared Theon hadn’t been sleeping either, because he was perched on the edge of the pallet. His face was gaunt in the torchlight. He looked like he’d been crying.

“Robb—” he began.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Your Grace.”

It had never sounded right coming from him, and it didn’t sound right now. But it hurt to hear his name on this man’s lips. It _hurt_.

“You never did tell me.”

Theon looked up.

“Why you did it.”

Shoulders hunched and tightened before going loose with a defeated sight. “Things fell apart from the beginning. My father never even looked at your terms. I tried sending you a warning, but…but my family…”

“Did they stop you?”

He shook his head. “I could have sent a raven in secret, but I…I felt like I was betraying them.”

“Betraying _them_?”

“They were my _family_.” Theon stood suddenly, possessed of some new energy, hands clenched at his side. “It’s easy for _you_ to say. You’ve never been asked to betray your family. You’ve never been asked to choose between your family and…and…”

“And friends?”

“Captors,” Theon growled. “The people who stole you away from your home to put a big sword over your head every fucking day of your life. That’s not much of a choice, is it?”

Robb lowered the light. “Did you really hate us all that time?”

“No.” Theon combed his hands through his hair and sat heavily on the pallet, energy gone. “No, I didn’t. It _was_ a hard decision.” His profile was illuminated in the soft glow of the flame, and Robb was struck by how handsome he was. It was an odd and out-of-the-way thought, but there it was. “I made the wrong decision.”

Robb set the torch in a sconce, padded over to the cot, and sat down before he could really think about what he was doing. Theon tensed by his side, then seemed to understand that he wasn’t going to be hurt and relaxed. It was nice sitting in silence, shoulder to shoulder. Familiar. Maybe, just for a few moments, they could pretend nothing had changed.

“I shouldn’t have put you in a situation where you had to choose.”

Theon stiffened. “Are you _apologizing_ to me?”

“I’m saying I made a wrong decision too.”

More silence.

“I don’t know what to do, Theon. Everything’s falling apart. Everyone’s…first you, then Mother. Now Karstark is starting to turn again me.” He put his head in his hands. “I’m losing my grip. I…I’m trying so hard to be my father, but…I’m _not_.”

It was the first time he’d ever admitted his misgivings about being King in the North. He probably shouldn’t have said anything, but it felt good. It felt good to have doubts and uncertainties, to admit that he didn’t always know what he was doing. It felt good to be human again.

“I’m glad you’re not your father.”

Robb peered up from between his fingers.

“Don’t get me wrong. Ned wasn’t…he wasn’t a _bad_ man. But I’m glad you’re Robb and not somebody else.” He leaned his head against the wall, exposing the long column of his neck. His beard always did come in a bit patchy after a few days of not shaving. “Even if you do have to kill me, I’m glad I knew you.”

He couldn’t bear that. It hurt too much. He didn’t _want_ to have to kill Theon.

“I wish I hadn’t fucked things up.”

“Me too.”

More silence.

“Can we not talk about that?” Robb sat up, dragging his hands down his face. “Can we just…for a little while pretend?”

Theon was silent for a moment.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I missed you. While you were gone.” Robb sighed. “I missed this. Us. Talking. It was always so easy with you.”

Theon snorted. “You were the only one who would ever _listen_ to me.”

“I hung on your every word.” Robb smiled at a memory of his mother taking him aside after the three of them—him, Theon, and Jon—had gotten into some mischief. All Theon’s fault, of course. “You know, my mother said you were a regular fountain of wisdom.”

“She did?”

“Yes. She said that I should take whatever advice you gave me…and do the exact opposite.”

Theon smiled. It was nice to have that smile back.

“I don’t know. I never steered you wrong before, did I?”

“All the time.”

More silence. Comfortable this time.

“So…your arm.”

Robb blinked and raised his injured arm. “Ah…an arrow. It’s healing, but I’m not allowed to use my sword until it does.” He moved it around experimentally and winced. “Jeyne’s done a good job of patching me up, though.”

“Jeyne?”Theon’s eyebrows rose in that way he had when lecherous thoughts were on his mind. “Who’s _Jeyne_?”

“Jeyne _Westerling_ , Theon.”

“A Westerling?” He whistled. “You must have some cock to get them to drop their loyalties to the Lannisters. What am I saying? I’ve seen your cock before. Don’t know if I’d call it _loyalty-switching_ , but…” He gave a small shrug, as if weighing the possibility.

“Stop it.” Robb swatted him.

“Ah, ah,” Theon laughed. “You’re turning as red as a virgin.”

“I am _not_ giving my…cock…to Jeyne Westerling. She’s tending me, is all.”

“Okay, okay.” Theon put his hands up in surrender. “But you’ve _thought_ about it.”

“That wouldn’t be appropriate. I couldn’t take her honor like that.”

“Honor, honor, honor. The girl’s probably this close to begging you to fuck her and you’re too oblivious to notice.”

“She’s not—”

“You’re a King for Gods’ sake. A handsome one at that. I bet she can’t wait to get her legs—”

“I’m handsome?”

Theon stopped abruptly, looking startled. “I _know_ I’m not the first on to tell you that. The red hair, the blue eyes, the Tully looks. The only reason you weren’t fighting off girls back at Winterfell was because _I_ was there to fight them off for you.”

Robb rolled his eyes.

“It’s true. I stabbed many a girl in your name, Robb. Really, you should thank me.”

Robb went to say something back, but instead a loud yawn escaped his open mouth.

“Oh, am I keeping you awake?” It had been a joke, but then Theon’s eyes drifted to Robb’s bare feet. “Shit, I really am keeping you awake.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“You’re tired though.”

“Maybe…I should get back to bed.” He stood and took the torch from its sconce. “I would like to keep talking, though maybe at a more appropriate hour.”

Theon nodded.

Robb turned to go.

“Thank you.”

Robb paused on his way out the door. “What for?”

“For pretending.”

He’d almost forgotten that they _were_ pretending. No, he had _completely_ forgotten.

“Yeah, sure.”

“Oh, and Your Grace…”

“Robb,” he corrected. “You called me that earlier without thinking about it.”

“Sorry.”

“No, it sounds better. Keep using it.” He shifted the torch to his other hand. “What did you want?”

“Give Jeyne a good stabbing for me, yeah?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the many kinds of kisses.

Why did Theon have to _say_ that? Now he was thinking about it, and Jeyne was right there, her fingers brushing his skin as she removed the bandage. He could feel her light breath against his skin, could see every freckle on her face. A strand of hair had fallen loose from her bun and tickled across his arm.

“It’s looking better,” he said idly. The flesh was beginning to pucker as it knitted together but was no longer angry and inflamed, and the bandage came away with less yellow pus each time, so that had to be a good sign.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

It sounded odd coming from her as well.

“You, uh…” He coughed into a closed fist. “You don’t need to call me that.”

She looked up at him. “What should I call you?”

“I just meant…your family might not like it.”

“Mm.” She made a small humming sound and reached for new bandages. She nearly dropped them when she looked up again. “Your Grace! Your face is all red! Are you running a fever?”

“I…what? No.” He put his hand against his forehead. It was very hot.

Jeyne began prodding his wound. “I’m so sorry. I must have missed some sign of infection. I—”

He stilled her movements by clasping her hands in his. “Jeyne, I’m fine.”

“You’ve been under a lot of stress, first with the news about your brothers, then Winterfell. It’s no wonder you’re sick. I should—”

His kiss cut her off.

Robb drew back to the stunned expression on her face. “My lady, forgive me. I—”

Her kiss cut him off.

They fell back onto the bed, his fingers in her hair, her hands on his chest. Their lips came together then came away wet. She climbed on top of him, little thing, hardly weighing anything, and breathed deeply against his neck. “Your Grace.”

His hands found their way up her skirt, feeling with his fingertips when she shuddered at his touch on her thigh.

“Yes,” she sighed, then stopped. “Tell me what to do, Your Grace. I don’t…” She bit her lip. Her freckles had disappeared amidst the flushing of her cheeks. She looked very young, the way Sansa did when she caught sight of a boy she fancied. She was young and untouched and…

This was wrong.

Robb say up and pushed her gently back. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

Jeyne sat back on her ankles. “It’s what I want. I’m ready.”

“No.” He put his hands on her shoulders and felt the trembling of her small frame. “I can’t. You should lose your virginity to your lord husband. Just as I should lose mine to my lady wife. You know I’m already promised.”

“But…you don’t _love_ her.”

Overwhelming fondness flooded his heart as she looked up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. The girl still believed in true love. She had not yet had her heart broken by the reality of war and loyalties and family alliances.

He tucked the strands of hair behind her ear. “I could grow to love you, Jeyne, but it’s not meant to be between us. I’m sorry.”

She took a deep breath. “No. No, you’re right,” she said with a resigned nod. “I thought… Forgive me, Your Grace.”

He cupped her cheek. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

They both stood and straightened their clothes. Better nobody should know. Jeyne looked both embarrassed and disappointed, though she did give him a shy smile as she finished bandaging his wound.

“That was my first kiss.”

“Mine too,” Robb lied.

 

***

 

As soon as she left, he went to see Theon again. The guard didn’t ask any questions, smart man. Theon gave him an uncertain smile as Robb entered.

“I’m not touching Jeyne. I’m already promised to the Frey girl, and your advice nearly cost us our alliance with her family.”

“My advice? Did something happen? Did you…?” That knowing grin crept back. “Did you fuck the Westerling girl?”

“No!”

“You’re all red.”

“We kissed, that was all. And even that was a mistake.”

Theon would not stop smiling. “Well, you’re halfway to becoming a man, at least. So, tell me, tell me.” He patted the pallet beside him. “What was it like to kiss the first girl who wasn’t your mother?”

“Shut up.”

“Was it anything like when you and I did it?”

“Oh, for Gods’ sake, we were _children_ , Theon. That was a long time ago.”

“But you remember it.”

_Quite well._

It had been about the time Theon had discovered girls and Robb had still been too young to see what all the fuss was about. Theon had been bragging to him and Jon about kissing one of the kitchen girls in the stairwell. Jon had just crinkled his nose, but Robb had asked, “Why would you do that?” To him, kissing had been something his parents did with each other, or occasionally what family members did to show they loved each other. “Do you love her?”

“Of course not.”

“You’re only supposed to kiss a person you love.” It was true. His mother always kissed him goodnight on the forehead. She never kissed Jon or Theon. And he only ever saw her kiss his father on the lips, which, he gathered, was the sort of kissing Theon was going on about.

Theon shrugged. “It’s fun. You should try to do it with as many people as you can.”

Robb furrowed his brow and thought about it. That didn’t sound right. “You’re sure it’s fun?”

Theon gave him a cheeky grin. “Definitely.”

“Then…kiss me?”

Jon had crinkled his nose again, but Theon had just laughed and come closer. He knelt down, their noses nearly touching, and said, “Okay. But you’ve got to say you’re a salt wife first.”

“What? Why?”

“Because two boys can only kiss each other if one of them is the salt wife. That’s the rule.”

Robb gathered up his scrawny shoulders. “Fine, I’m a salt wife.”

Theon leaned in and gave him a kiss on the lips, quick and dry. It had happened so fast, he didn’t know what to think.

“That’s no good. You have to do it again.”

Theon had laughed and pulled away. “Are you going to beg me, Lord Stark?”

Robb had tackled him, then, and Jon had joined in, and later Ned had chastised them for roughhousing inside, but Robb always wondered what would have had happened if he _had_ begged. And later, when he began to discover girls on his own—the way they smiled and giggled, the way their bodies moved differently under their clothes—he wondered again if it was too late to beg for another chance.

 

***

 

Catelyn was not pleased to find that Theon was being held at Riverrun, even after Robb told her that her sons might yet be alive. “That doesn’t change anything,” she said, her eyes still red from crying. She’d spent the better part of the night at the sept after she’d heard the news, praying to the Seven to return her boys to her safely. “Why is he still alive?”

“Bran and Rickon need to be found first.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because…because if I’m going to execute Theon, it will be for the crimes he committed, not the ones he didn’t.”

Catelyn scowled but didn’t argue further. She must have known she was in no position to question the handling of a traitor.

“Has a search party been sent?”

“Several. As well as ravens to our bannermen. They will be looking for them.” He took her in his arms, afraid she might pull away, but instead she clung to him. He pressed a kiss to her hairline. “We’ll find them, Mother. I promise.”

 

***

 

“Your mother let the Kingslayer go?” The old Theon was coming out more and more often with each visit to his cell. Today he reclined on his pallet, hands on his stomach, one leg dangling over the edge. “Bloody waste,” he said in disgust.

“And yet she believed she was doing the right thing.” Robb leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. It was a warm day, and humid in the valley. The air in the cells was dank and unbreathable. He wished he could take Theon up into the daylight. “I’m not ready to forgive her yet, but…”

“She’s your mother.” Theon shifted and tucked his hands behind his head. “Isn’t it funny, the _bullshit_ we’ll put up with in the name of family?”

“Family’s everything. If you don’t have family, what do you have?”

“A big, barren rock.”

“I wish I could forgive you,” Robb sighed. “But I can’t.”

“I guess I’ve gotten use to expecting that.”

“I don’t want to have to kill you.”

Theon sat up. “Tell me the truth. Is that why you’ve been putting off my execution?”

Theon had always been able to see straight through him. Or maybe Robb had just always been that transparent. Well, as long as they weren’t pretending anymore…

“I never stopped thinking of you as a brother,” Robb answered. “You were always family to me.” He allowed himself a nostalgic smile before shaking it off. “But now I see that you never really felt the same.”

“Robb, it isn’t—”

He held his palm up to silence him. “You _acted_ the brother, certainly, and the friend. But there were times…when I let myself think…”

He paused. He’d never admitted this to anyone. Hardly even himself. It still wasn’t said yet. He could still bite down on his tongue and go to his grave with never having admitted it. But then Theon would go to _his_ grave with never having _heard_ it, and perhaps sooner rather than later. If they weren’t pretending anymore, then the truth was, time was running out between them.

“You were more than that?”

Gods, it sounded like a question, and Theon looked so confused.

Robb pushed off from the wall and came to sit by his side. Not shoulder-to-shoulder like that first night, but face-to-face. Gods, how many girls had fallen for that face, that arrogant smile? It was on the tip of his tongue, what he wanted to say. Confessions about watching Theon, the way his sinewy body moved under his clothes, the way he smiled and laughed. Sneaking peeks at him in the baths. Awkward fumbling with his hands under the sheets at night, sometimes to the images of girls, sometimes to images of Theon smiling at him.

Instead of any of that, he leaned in and whispered, “I could be your salt wife.”

Theon’s breath hitched. Robb pulled back to a rather startled look on Theon’s face. He searched for any trace of disgust or horror, but it was difficult to tell.

“Are you going to make me beg?” he prompted at last. He closed the space between them, hesitant, just a light brush of lips against lips.

His heart kicked when he felt Theon’s tongue slid against his lips, seeking entrance. He opened to the salty, coppery taste that was Theon. Hands came up to hold the back of his head and pull him in deeper.

In that moment, Robb knew what it meant for a kiss to steal one’s breath away.


	5. Chapter 5

They broke apart, breathing heavily. Robb’s forehead came to rest against his own. Amazing how Robb could still surprise him, even after all these years.

“If you mother knew, she’d kill me.”

And then the moment was gone. The harshness of his own words rang in his ears.

“Is this what you think I want, Robb? The last request of a condemned man?”

“Theon—”

“Or maybe you just want to unload this on me before I can do anything about it. Maybe you’re glad I’ll be taking your secret to the grave with me.”

“Theon, please. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t _apologize_ to me.” He pushed Robb back. “I don’t _deserve_ to be apologized to. I’m a _murderer_. I didn’t kill your brothers, but I did kill two boys to make everyone think I did. The miller’s boys. Remember them? They had dark hair, not like Bran or Rickon at all, so I had their heads tarred so that nobody could tell.” He let that sink in and watched Robb’s face, the quirking of his lips, the furrowing of his brow. “So there you go. I took Winterfell. I ordered _your_ loyal servants executed. I outright _murdered_ two children. Isn’t that enough? Isn’t that enough to end this farce already?”

Why was Robb looking at him like that, like he deserved pity and not all the scorn the noble Robb Stark had to offer?

“If you’re going to have my head, be done with it. Don’t…” He didn’t know what he even wanted to say.

He needed to get up and move. The cell only allowed a five-step pacing range. Five steps took him to one end and five steps took him back. And Robb just sat there, watching.

“If you’re not going to kill me and you’re not going to forgive me, what do you want? What do you want from me, Robb? Tell me. Whatever it is, I’ll accept it, but don’t _leave_ me like this.”

Why was Robb still _looking_ at him like that? With those big blue eyes, like _any_ of this was excusable? He could see that Robb was still trying to make excuses for him, but Theon was sick of excuses. He didn’t _have_ any more. And when had Robb become so _cruel_?

“Please, Robb. Please.” He fell at the King’s feet. “What do you want from me?” He made to bow his forehead against Robb’s boots, kiss the soles if that’s what he wanted. But at that, Robb stood.

“I’ve made a mistake.”

Theon cringed. He’d forced Robb’s hand. His head would be on the wall by morning. Fine, so be it. If that was what the good and honorable Robb Stark had decided.

Robb left with a cordial nod, and Theon was left alone with his thoughts again.

 

***

 

There was a noise from outside in the hall. It woke Theon from his restless dream, and then it took him a few moments to realize he wasn’t dreaming anymore. It was always dark down here, but it _seemed_ to be night. There were men yelling and scuffling about, too many for that narrow hall by the sound of it. The clang of metal on metal, then metal on flesh. A child’s scream was cut short. The faintest smell of blood and burning torches.

Theon waited for the men to come for him next, but the noise came no nearer. In fact, it gradually died away and left an eerie silence behind.

Theon turned over on his pallet and counted the stones on the wall.

 

***

 

“The men responsible have been executed.” Robb drummed his fingers along the wall, as if he’d rather be anywhere than here. Theon had not expected to see him again like this, face-to-face. He looked immeasurably tired. “All except…”

“Lord Karstark,” Theon finished.

Robb’s nails looked chewed to the quick. He shouldn’t have been tapping them like that.

“If I execute Lord Karstark, I lose half my army.”

“Then don’t execute Lord Karstark.”

“He murdered two children! He committed treason!”

Theon flinched.

Robb stopped his nervous drumming to run his hand through auburn his hair, groaning. News of the Lannister boys’ deaths at his own men’s hands was truly destroying him, though Theon guessed not entirely for the right reasons.

“You’re not really interested in my advice on this, are you, Robb?”

“Honor dictates that I take Lord Karstark’s head. It is just. It was what my father would do. And yet, if I behead Karstark as a traitor and a murderer…” He let his hands drop to his side and stared at the ground.

“You’d have to behead me as well,” Theon finished.

“I can’t keep making excuses for you. I _can’t_. But if I pardon Karstark, then my honor will be…”

Theon knew to keep silent. He desperately wanted to plead his case, but the wrong word would loose Robb’s sword against his favor.

“I don’t know what to _do_ , Theon.”

“Do the right thing, Robb.” It was all he could say.

“But what _is_ the right thing? I thought I knew.” He scuffed his boots along the gravelly floor of the cell. “My father would know.”

“You’re not your father.”

“Yes, I know. I _know_.” Sharply, he kicked a rock across the room. It ricocheted off the wall with an angry click. “Everyone is so fond of reminding me. Why are _you_ the only one who makes it sound like a good thing?”

Silence. Robb’s breathing came heavily.

“You’ve already made your decision, haven’t you?”

Robb sighed in what might have been defeat or disgust or simply weariness.

“If hope you appreciate that I’m throwing my honor away for you, Theon Greyjoy.”


	6. Chapter 6

Robb didn’t come to visit him in his cell again and was distant when they next met. A guard had been sent to collect Theon, his wrists cuffed in irons as he was led outside for the first time in weeks. At first he was terrified, convinced Robb had changed his mind and he was been taken out to have his head cut off. But upon setting foot in the courtyard, the sight of horses being saddled told him the camp was simply moving on.

The guard escorted him across the yard, leading him by the elbow as they weaved around the commotion of it all. Squires were running back and forth as they helped knights into their armor. Other servants were bridling and dressing horses or else delivering supplies to where they needed delivering.

Robb rode up astride his own horse, dressed in his Young Wolf’s armor, Smiler in tow. He handed the reins to Theon’s guard. “He rides in the back. No one is to harm him.” His blue eyes met Theon’s for a brief moment. “King’s orders.”

And then he left. No other words.

The guard didn’t look too happy to be saddled with the title of chaperone. He was rough in helping Theon up onto his horse—the task made difficult with the shackles impeding every movement.

“Where are we headed?” Theon asked, trying to make small talk.

To which the guard snapped, “None of your concern, turncloak.”

Ah, so he was still a turnlock. He’d entertained the possibility that Robb’s change of heart might make him a prisoner of war instead, even though he’d long since worn out any use as a hostage.

They waited until most of the men and horses had gone by and then took up the rear, sticking close to the supply lines. Despite staying largely out of the way, Theon could still hear the men talking and feel the hateful looks cast his way. He tried to tell himself that it was nothing new, that the years at Winterfell had numbed him to their scorn, but somewhere along the line he’d become rather bad at lying to himself.

Riding with an army was much slower than riding alone, and his new friend turned out to be no friend at all. Attempts at idle chatter were cut short, perhaps fortuitously. Theon didn’t feel much like talking. But neither did he feel much like thinking.

Robb was avoiding him. But why?

It occurred to Theon that the boy was embarrassed. After that kiss, maybe he’d thought he’d been rejected? Theon didn’t consider himself to be _that way_ , but men were known to do such things in wartime. And there were plenty of stories of sailors, away at sea for months without a woman in sight, laying together. On the Iron Islands, it was only shameful to play the part of the woman, the “salt wife,” something that happened often enough but was seldom spoken of. If Robb was ashamed, Theon would just have to show him otherwise and vowed to do so when next they saw each other.

In private, of course.

 

***

 

They rode until the sun began to set. It had been a long day, and Theon judged they had ridden perhaps twenty miles, not enough to even be out of the river valley. He wondered where they were going and how long it would take to get there.

His sullen guard pulled him from his horse and dragged him off to the hitching post with the rest of the animals. “What? Are you going to leave me here all night? It might rain.”

The guard paused from tying his hands to contemplate the low-lying clouds. “Might.”

“At least put me in a tent.”

“No room.”

Theon tested the binding. “Is this the King’s orders, then? I demand to see Robb!”

A punch to the gut had him doubled over.

“You don’t _demand_ anything, turncloak.”

Theon pulled himself back to his feet and gave the man a contemptuous glare. “He said I wasn’t to be hurt. What will he saw when I tell him you disobeyed the King’s orders?”

They stared each other down. Theon was determined not to relent.

Finally, the guard gritted his teeth and began undoing the rope. He wasn’t any gentler, though, as he led Theon by the chain through the camp. The shackles had been chaffing his wrists all day, and now, to be pulled along like a puppet on a string, cut even deeper into his flesh.

There were no guards posted outside Robb’s tent, but Theon recognized the great grey shape of Grey Wind rise to meet them. The direwolf padded to Theon and eyed him with more judgment than any animal should be capable of. A moment later, the tent flap was thrown back and Robb himself appeared. His look mirrored Grey Wind’s.

“What should I do with the prisoner, Your Grace?”

Robb sighed. “I’ll speak with him. You’re dismissed for the night.”

How many times had Theon entered this tent? Well over a hundred, he had to guess. Then why did this feel like the very first time? Why did this feel like new territory? When had Robb become so intimidating? He’d already taken off his armor, but that only made him seem bigger, somehow, all shoulder and broad chest under his thinner clothing.

Theon stood in the middle of the room and fiddled with the chain between his hands as Robb went back to his work of composing letters. The shape of his back was visible as he bent over his desk, pen in hand as he wrote. He did not look at Theon.

“I suppose it’s safe enough to tell you,” he began. “We’re heading to the Twins.”

“For battle or…?”

“I’m going to honor my vow. We’re going to take Casterly Rock, cut the Lannisters off from their gold, but we’re going to need more men to do it.”

He thought about that a moment. “The Freys?”

“Mother would have a fit if she knew I told you, but I figure there’s not much you could do with this information.”

“No,” Theon agreed.

Robb continued scribbling away at his notes. “I haven’t decided what to do with you yet.”

Theon didn’t know what to suggest. It seemed he wasn’t going to die in the immediate future, and he should be grateful enough for that. Robb’s coldness was chilling him, though. Slowly, he edged up Robb, testing the waters. Though the King hunched his shoulders, he made no move to block his work from view. It was a letter to Jeyne Westerling.

“I may never see her again,” he explained.

Theon shrugged. No use telling him he’d thrown away his one chance with that girl.

“It’s probably for the best. I’ll be married in a few days’ time.” He sounded almost frightened at the prospect. Not that Theon blamed him. To lose his virginity to a Frey girl of all people! Perhaps that was why he was so distant?

Feeling suddenly more in his element, Theon looped his arms around Robb and leaned in over the top of his head. He made sure to put some rasp in his voice, the way he did when seducing a girl. Robb wasn’t a girl, but he might appreciate it nonetheless. “Not for a few more days, though.” Yes, this was the opening he’d been looking for. They were together and alone and there were no guards nearby and…

And Robb was pulling away, ducking under the chains and knocking his chair over as he stood. “What are you doing?”

Perhaps he thought Theon meant to strangle him with the chain? That hurt.

He went after Robb, caught his face between his hands, and placed a delicate kiss on his lips. _See, Robb? It’s just me, gentle_. And for a second, he felt Robb melt into it. Theon nudged his legs open and pressed his thigh into Robb’s growing hardness. Let there be no doubts what he was offering.

Then Robb was pulling away again. “Stop.”

“But—”

“What kind of man do you think I am?”

“What’s wrong, Robb? Is it because we’re both men?” Perhaps he was even more embarrassed than Theon had thought. “Men take comfort in each other on the battlefield all the time. Hells, I got some drunk to suck me off behind the weapons stockpile before I left for Pyke.”

Robb shook his head as if he didn’t want to hear.

“Are you scared?” Theon took a step forward and Robb took a step back. Yes, that must be it. Theon would just have to treat him like the blushing virgin he was. “It’s nothing to be scared of. I’ll be the woman tonight. You’ll see, I’ll take good care of you.” He only hoped he could back up his words. He’d never actually been on that end of the transaction, but Drowned God knew he’d taken women up the arse a time or two. He could work around it.

“I can’t,” Robb said.

“Why not? Honor?” Theon chuckled. “You won’t be taking my maidenhead, Robb, and there not much chance of you planting a bastard in my belly. Even if you’re worried about honor, trust me, I _have_ no more honor left to take.”

“Then what about my honor?” Robb shouted, freezing Theon in his tracks.

Grey Wind’s ear perked up.

“You…I threw my honor _away_ for you. I might as well have spit on my father’s grave. And all because I lo—” He cut himself short, eyes going wide at what he’d almost said. “I’m getting married in a few days. Can’t you…can’t you just let me have what’s left of my honor?”

Theon felt like he’d been punched in the gut again. That was why Robb had been avoiding him? Because the mere sight of him caused Robb to question his own honor?

“I…sorry,” he said, taking a few steps back. “I’ll just…where should I spend the night?”

“I don’t care.” Robb turned away. “Just…I don’t want to see you right now.”

Theon nodded numbly. “As you wish…Your Grace.”

He felt Grey Wind’s eyes on his back as he fled from the tent.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One rule of writing says that readers will accept the impossible but not the improbable. If anything strikes you as far too unlikely, go ahead and tell me in the comments. 
> 
> Also, any other concrit is absolutely welcome. I'm not making any money off of this. I'm only here to entertain, so if I've failed at that, well...go ahead and tell me anyway.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

Theon kept himself scarce the rest of the way to the Twins. Robb would occasionally catch glimpses of him here or there before quickly turning away. Not that he had much time to think about what had passed between them in the tent. Just because they were on the move didn’t mean his duties as King in the North could go unattended.

Lord Karstark had received his pardon ungraciously, saying there was nothing to be pardoned for. “A grieving man needs his justice,” the old man had said, “but I suppose that’s something you wouldn’t understand.” He’d given Robb a knowing look, even as the other bannermen had been quick to leap to their King’s defense, saying Robb Stark knew justice better than any man here. One only had to look to their current campaign to see it.

But Karstark remained, along with his men. Roose Bolton, of all his advisors, congratulated Robb on his “restraint.” “It is better to maintain good will among your allies,” he said in that quiet way. “Let us hope such a gesture does not come too late.”

He was always saying ominous things like that. Robb missed Theon’s easy jokes behind the man’s back. It was the only thing that had ever put him at ease around the Leech Lord.

They arrived at the Twins a week after leaving Riverrun. Seeing the river brought back terrible memories of an earlier crossing. Back then, they’d arrived from the north, desperate to gain time on the way to Kings Landing, to save his father and sisters. It had all been for nothing. And now the desperate deal struck back then would have to be paid.

_To win this war_ , he said as he steeled himself.

The men began to make camp while Robb, his mother, uncle, and King’s guard were received into Walder Frey’s hall. The air of the camp was general merriment, if perhaps a bit subdued. It was odd to think that all these men, flying all their different colors and flags, would soon be celebrating his marriage to a girl he’d never even met.

It was driving him to distraction, this faceless girl with whom he’d be sharing the rest of his life. The woman, rather, who would share his bed and bear his children. What did she look like? What did her laugh sound like? Did she have a wonderful smile?

“Can I meet her?”

Lord Frey looked up from where he had been reciting guest rights.

“My future wife. Can I meet her?” Robb repeated.

Walder waved it away as if it were no concern of his. “Someone go fetch her. King Robb wants to see what he’s purchasing.”

“What? No, that’s not what I meant.”

Walder gave him a lecherous smile, as if he could see straight through his charade. As if Robb _were_ putting up a charade.

He hadn’t meant to offend his host. Obviously, the deal was done and there was no backing out. The ceremony was a formality at this point. Not that Robb would back out. If they brought him a girl with one leg and a face like a frog, he’d still honor her.

The girl they brought, though, was not what any of them were expecting. In particular, Edmure’s jaw went slack as the young woman was escorted in. Her head was hung low, but even so, it was clear that she had inherited none of her father’s rough looks. Robb wanted to tilt her chin up and tell her that she needn’t be afraid, that his every intention was to protect and honor her, but her escort kept her lingering at the door. She would not lift her eyes to them.

“May I present my daughter, Rose.”

“Roslin,” she corrected meekly.

“Roslin,” Robb repeated. He wanted to go to her. “It is an honor to finally meet you, my lady.”

“And you, Your Grace.”

“Enough,” Walder said. “If she meets with your approval…”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good. Then you can return her to her duties. Wedding preparations and all that.” He waved to her escort. “You may leave.”

“Wait.” Robb broke free from his men and ran after Roslin. He grabbed hold of her hand, so small and soft in his own. She released a soft gasp and finally raised her head. Her eyes were ringed with red. “My lady.” He brushed a thumb over her cheek. Someone had scrubbed her face raw so that no hint of tears remained. “I would speak with you some more.”

She turned her head away, a cascade of chestnut curls obscuring her face once more. “I cannot. Not now, Your Grace.”

“What troubles you? I would put your mind at ease.”

Walder cleared his throat, a great phlegmy noise that drew Robb’s attention back to the matter at hand. “There will be enough time for that later.”

Robb released her hand. “Yes. Yes, of course. Forgive me, my lady.”

Walder was pleased when Roslin and her escort left and he could continue. Salt and bread were passed around and words were said without inflection. When all was said and done, Walder clapped his hands together as though in great anticipation. “You’ll be shown to your rooms to prepare for the ceremony. Our house is your house.”

 

***

 

“She seems a lovely girl,” Catelyn offered as they were led to their quarters. The hallways were mazelike, and Robb was glad for the Frey guide, dour and silent though he was.

“Mother, she was crying.”

“Some girls do cry.” Catelyn patted his shoulder. “She may be nervous or excited or even happy. You mustn’t take it personally.”

“I don’t. It just seems—”

At his side, Catelyn stiffened, and as he followed her line of sight, he stiffened too. Who should be coming down the corridor, led by a Bolton soldier, but Theon Greyjoy. He could not escape the man!

Catelyn averted her gaze immediately. She couldn’t understand why the traitor was still alive and had attempted on several occasions to get an answer from Robb on the trek from Riverrun. An answer that was not forthcoming and which she would not accept even if she knew. It must be the Seven alone that kept her from grabbing the sword at the soldier’s side and running Theon through at that very moment.

“Where are you going?” Robb asked, stopping short.

The Bolton soldier looked startled at being addressed. “Taking the prisoner to the dungeons, Your Grace.”

“No, you’ll be taking him to his own room.”

“Your Grace—”

“You see this?” Robb strode forward and grabbed hold of the chain linking Theon’s wrists together. “This means he’s _mine_. _My_ prisoner. Not the Freys’. He gets his own room, and no one is to harm him. Make sure the Freys are informed.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The Bolton soldier bowed and changed directions. He had to urge Theon to move, though, since he stood gawking at Robb for several seconds after his decree was passed. He did eventually snap back to himself, and he and his guard disappeared down a different corridor.

Catelyn gave her son a disapproving look, but knew better than to question the King in front of the Freys. Even in her silence, Robb fought the urge to defend himself. He could point out that she could easily be put in the dungeons for her own treason, that his good will alone prevented it. She was his mother, a grieving widow, and worried for her two young sons. She had every right to hate Theon for what he’d done to their family.

So why did Robb want to tell her she was wrong?

 

***

 

“I think they use this room for servants,” The Frey guard said.

“Better than this shit deserves,” the Bolton guard answered.

Theon was inclined to agree. The room was tiny and sparse, but it was beyond what he’d been expecting. He’d expected to spend another week or two in a cold, dank dungeon. This way he would be sleeping on an actual mattress, at least. He didn’t entirely understand why, but Robb had intervened on his behalf.

He was shoved into his room, and shortly after heard something heavy being pushed up against the door. “Bugger it.” The Bolton guard’s voice came muffled through the thick wood. “I’m not standing guard out here all night to keep this fucker in his room.”

“You could kill him off now,” the Frey suggested.

“What? And risk having Stark find out? I’m not going to lose _my_ head just hours before the King in the North.”

“Would you keep your voice down?”

“We’re the only ones here, ‘cept for him, and he ain’t going nowhere. Who’s _he_ going to tell?”

What were they talking about? It sounded like he wasn’t supposed to be listening in, so of course Theon pressed his ear to the door and willed his breath to be silent. He had to strain to hear.

“Yeah, alright,” the Frey said. “Well, if you can’t kill him now, why don’t you and I come up afterwards and slit his throat?”

“Lord Bolton might want to keep him around.”

“Ah, I see. Well, in any case, there will be plenty of Starks for you to cut down.”

Cut down Starks? Where these two men…? No, of course not. Who would be so stupid to talk about murder when anyone could be listening in. Theon was used to idle chatter about his own murder, but these men were talking about Robb. About killing him.

The guard’s voices came quieter now, more distant. The sound of their footsteps became louder than the words. The Bolton guard was laughing though. “I hear there’s some cue to start with the…” Theon heard a sword being drawn and swishing through the air.

“Watch where you swing that, idiot. We won’t be there, but they’ll pass the word along once it’s started.”

“Wonder if old Frey will do it before or after the ceremony.”

“Don’t know, but I do know Robb Stark won’t be having no wedding night.”

Theon backed away from the door.

“I can’t wait to see the looks on their faces.”

That was the last he could make out, though they continued to talk, their voices now indistinct.

Pressed flat against the wall, he waited several minutes until even the sound of their footsteps had disappeared. Then he listened. When no more voices or echoing footsteps were forthcoming, he tried to door. It wouldn’t budge. Whatever they’d used to block it was heavy.

He put all of his weight into it and pushed with his shoulder, but the most it gave was an inch or two. He couldn’t accept that. Robb needed to be told. Those guards…they were receiving their orders from high up, possibly Lord Bolton and Lord Frey themselves based on their little back-and-forth.

But why? What did they have to gain from betraying Robb like this? Did they know something he didn’t? Or had they simply decided to cast their lot in with the side they felt more comfortable would win? Walder Frey seemed the type, to be sure, but Roose Bolton…

Theon had never liked the man. He spoke too softly and never said what he meant.

Theon tried the door one more time, throwing himself at is as if his life depended on it—which it very well may. Robb’s certainly did. No give, just a tiny sliver he could peek through to see that the hallway outside was indeed empty.

Fine, there were other ways out. The window, for one. The latch was a bit rusty, but he was able to get it open. A three-story drop into the river greeted him, but the sills had wide ledges and he could see the next one down. That wasn’t a terrible climb.

He ripped the sheets off the bed and began tying them together. The knotwork was difficult with his manacled hands, but he managed to get a decent enough rope. As he tied one end to the bedpost and let the other end out the window, he was thankful to Sansa for actually making him listen to all her boring romantic stories. This was how the fair lady always escaped the tower in those tales.

He climbed out onto the ledge, grabbed hold of his makeshift rope, and, using his feet to push off from the wall, began to rappel down the side of the tower. The next ledge wasn’t too far beneath, ten feet or so. If he could make if there, he could maybe break the glass and reenter the castle that way. Then it would only be a matter of finding a Stark solider before a Bolton or Frey solider found him.

A sudden thought: What if they didn’t believe him? Why _would_ they believe him? Or worse, what if they took him before Robb and _he_ didn’t believe him?

He needed to try, at least. And anyway, his foot was almost to the ledge.

He heard it first. The sound of tearing fabric. He looked up to see the sheet ripping right down the middle. And then the rope went slack in his hands and he was falling.

His feet hit the ledge hard and he teetered, trying to regain his center. No good, he lost his footing. Arms flailing, he reached out for anything he could grab onto. It was so quick. First he was plummeting, then a sharp pain in his wrists and shoulders. It took him a moment to realize what had happened. The chain of the shackles had been caught on one of the uneven stones that jutted out from the windowsill. It would take some strength, but he could haul himself back up.

As he took several deep breaths to prepare himself for the effort, the window flew open from the inside and Theon found himself staring straight up at Catelyn Stark.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all your comments. I'm over my little bout of self-doubt, so let's do this thing.
> 
> Comments and suggestions always welcome.

There was a definite moment where she thought about letting him fall. Theon could see it in her eyes.

“Please,” he called up to her. It felt like his shoulders would give out from his weight. “Robb’s in danger.”

Her eyes widened a bit, and without saying anything, she held out her hand to him. Theon could have cried. He hauled himself onto the ledge, and from there she helped him up and through the window. She was stronger than he would have given her credit for.

She didn’t allow him to catch his breath though. “Speak,” she barked. “You have one minute.”

He told her what he’d heard, the plot to seemingly murder Robb at his own wedding. Catelyn listened, her brow furrowed but expression otherwise unreadable.

“No, I’ve known Walder Frey since I was a girl. He wouldn’t—he could never—” She began pacing, and despite her words, Theon knew she believed him, or was at least entertaining the possibility. “But how? Why? We’re about to forge an alliance. They wouldn’t dare—” She stopped short. “Tonight, during the wedding ceremony? Are you sure?”

Theon nodded. “During or before or after. I’m not sure.”

She paced some more, fingers twitching nervously. “We don’t have much time, then.”

“Forgive me, my lady, but does that mean you believe me?”

She stopped her pacing to look at him like he’d sprouted tentacles. “You’re a liar and a turncloak, Theon Greyjoy, and this may yet be a ploy on your part to gain my son’s sympathies. But I’ve known you since you were a child, and I’ve never known you to be particularly…intelligent.”

Theon grunted at that.

“If this _is_ a figment of your demented mind, it’s a fairly convincing one.”

“I’m only alive now by the grace of your son,” he said, straightening his shoulders. “If you doubt me, _my lady_ , would you at least concede that _my_ continued survival depends on _Robb’s_ continued survival?”

She shushed him with a cutting motion of her hand. “There’s an easy way to determine the truth of this.”

“You’re not going to Lord Frey, are you?” She’d get them both killed.

She gave him a horrified look. “Of _course_ not. I’m going to Robb.”

 

***

 

“I can’t just call off the wedding.” Now Theon knew why Robb’s nails always looked so chewed. He _chewed_ them when he was nervous. When had he picked up that habit? “I can’t throw away this alliance on hearsay. What if you’re wrong?”

“You think I’m lying?” Theon couldn’t keep the hurt out of his voice.

“I didn’t say that. But what if this is all just a misunderstanding? Maybe…the guards were just joking?”

“Joking about the King of the North losing his head?”

Robb paced. He’d always been a bit of a pacer. Must have gotten it from his mother. He turned to Catelyn, her hands folded in front of her, the perfect picture of dignity. “What do you think I should do, Mother?”

She took a deep breath.

“If it’s true,” she began, “and even the Frey and Bolton footmen are in on it, I’m amazed they’ve managed to keep it a secret at all. Soldiers love to talk. Send some loyal men to check with the troops, see if anyone else has heard anything suspicious. You can also use this opportunity to warn our men to be on guard. Tell them not to take any action yet, in case this _is_ all a misunderstanding, but also tell them to be prepared for a sneak attack.”

“I’ll send the Greatjon and Dacey Mormont,” Robb agreed.

“If the soldiers _have_ been talking, we should be able to find one we can compel to admit to it.” She turned sharply to Theon. “Do you remember the names of the men who escorted you to your room?”

Theon laughed at that. “A gold dragon says the Frey’s name was Walder.”

Robb laughed too.

“You’re right,” she said in a way that suggested it was painful to admit. “That doesn’t do us much good. Their faces, maybe? If we could track them down and see where they’d received the news from, we could—”

“Roslin.”

Catelyn and Theon turned to Robb.

“She was crying. Walder didn’t want her to talk to me. If all the Freys know, then she probably would as well.”

“I don’t know,” Catelyn said doubtfully. “It might not be wise to tip our hand to her.”

“She was crying,” he repeated, “because she’s scared. She probably wants nothing to do with it. If I could speak with her alone…” He chewed his nails again and Theon resisted the urge to pull the King’s hand out of his mouth.

“She shouldn’t be too hard to find,” he finally said, speaking up for the first time in a while. “This is a _wedding_. If you want to find the bride, just follow the sound of giggling.”

 

***

 

The maidservants _were_ giggling, loud enough to be heard up and down the hall. Their laughter turned to startled squeals as Robb stepped through the dressing room door, Grey Wind behind him. Roslin wore only simple white chemise, and one of the maids threw herself in front of the girl to protect her mistress’s modesty. “See here, I know how impatient men get on their wedding day, but you’ll just have to wait, Your Grace.”

“I _will_ speak with my bride. Alone.”

Grey Wind growled, bearing his teeth, and all the desire to fight left the maidservant. She and the other women scurried from the room while Roslin remained.

She covered herself with her arms. Robb averted his gaze and made sure she saw he was not looking at her in her state of undress. “I’m not here to hurt you, my lady. I only wish to speak with you.”

She didn’t answer.

“Why were you crying earlier?”

“Your Grace, if I offended—”

“No, no. Of course not. I was worried for you, that’s all.”

“You were…worried for me?”

“Of course. You are to be my lady wife. If something is troubling you, I wish you would tell me.”

With his back turned to her, he couldn’t see the expression on her face, but she seemed to be contemplating her answer. She took a deep breath, and before she even spoke, Robb knew the truth.

“I don’t want you to get hurt, Your Grace. I don’t want _anyone_ to get hurt.”

He turned slowly. She had taken cover behind a curtain, but her face peered out to return his gaze, eyes boring in his. She was trembling and looked like she might burst into fresh tears at any moment.

“You know, don’t you?” she said. “What they plan to do. I assure you, I wanted to part of it, Your Grace.”

Robb steadied himself against the wall, feeling suddenly lightheaded. Grey Wind came up to him, and he stroked the wolf’s fur unconsciously. “Your father is planning to kill me…and my mother? Everyone?”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “You _must_ believe I had no part in it.”

He nodded. That seemed clear enough. “Thank you for telling me.”

“I’m sorry, Your Grace.”

He needed to get out here. His mother, his uncle, all his remaining King’s guard and bannermen—he needed to get them all out of here. Now, while they still had the upper hand. But how? How could they escape without alerting the Freys?

“Roslin,” he began slowly, “in some castles, there are hidden passages, meant for the family to escape through when there is danger.” Winterfell had several of them. He’d never had to use them, be he’d known where they were. Perhaps Bran and Rickon had used them when they’d escaped.

“We have such a passage,” Roslin confirmed. “It leads out into the forest, Your Grace. I’ll show you. Only…” She blushed and drew the curtain closer around her. “Would you allow me to dress first, Your Grace?”

 

***

 

In the end, Theon found himself in the dungeons after all. Robb held the torch while the Frey girl led the way to the escape tunnel; Catelyn and Grey Wind fell behind, as if making sure he wouldn’t run away. The Frey girl had vindicated him, but Catelyn was still determined to find fault with his loyalties. And Grey Wind’s eyes flashed in the darkness, always watching him.

The dungeons at Riverrun had been dank, but the dungeons at the Twins were a veritable swamp. There were large standing pools of water everywhere, but you’d never see them before sloshing right through them. Theon’s boots were soaked and he guessed from the occasional splashing sounds that he others’ were as well. The air was thick with the buzzing of flies and the stench of rot. He was glad to have never seen the inside of any of the cells.

The Frey girl seemed to know where she was going. Theon wondered what circumstances could have brought her down here in the past that she was so comfortable in a place the Drowned God himself would reject. She was a pretty little thing, not at all what he had expected when he’d learned Robb was to wed a Frey. She and Robb would have made perfect little Northern lordlings together.

They came to the end of one of the many arms reaching down deep under the castle. The girl motioned for Robb to bring the torch to a tiny out-of-the-way nook. The light stretched the shadows outwards, revealing the nook to be a narrow tunnel.

“That way,” she said with a nod of her head.

Robb gestured for Theon and his mother to get going. Grey Wind took the lead. They were just out of range of the torch when they had to stop. Robb had held back. His voice echoed off the stones as he spoke.

“Roslin, come with us.”

Beside him, Theon heard Catelyn’s jaw click closed.

“When your father finds me missing, he’ll suspect you helped me.”

“I’m doing this to help my family as much as you, Your Grace.”

“But there will still be fighting. Our father won’t find my men as unprepared as he thought. I’d rather you weren’t here when the fighting starts. Come with us, just for the night. If your father manages to come out victorious, you can always say I kidnapped you.”

“As a hostage,” Theon offered.

Robb seemed not to have noticed they were even there listening in because he started at Theon’s voice.

“If Robb wins, you’ll be a prisoner anyway.”

Catelyn swatted him.

“We’re not going to try to take the Twins,” Robb said, turning back to the Frey girl. “I’ve ordered my men to pull back, if they can. We’re ill-prepared for battle. If all goes according to the plan, we should be off your father’s land by daybreak with minimal losses. I’d send you back, once it was safe.”

“We need to go, Robb!” Catelyn called.

Robb nodded. “I’m sorry, my lady, I can’t wait much longer. They need my light. Can I have your answer?”

Theon knew what she was going to say before she did. Did anyone _ever_ say no to Robb Stark?

“Yes,” she said, and in the dim light he could see her clasp Robb’s hand. “Take me with you, Your Grace.”


	9. Chapter 9

The men kept trickling into camp. At first it was mostly those who had managed to escape unscathed, but as the night went on and one, the more and more injuries they saw. Reports told of brutal fighting, but most of Robb’s men had been in a position to at least put up a fight. The Greatjon was one of the last to arrive, carrying the body of Dacey Mormont. She’d taken several arrows to the chest and kept fighting to her dying breath. Initial estimates put the loss at several hundred men—several hundred men who had not expected to die in battle tonight.

Robb had failed them. Every dead man. Every injured and dying man. Losses through battle were inevitable, but this had not been a true battle. If he’d been more aware of the warning signs, if he’d just asked more questions... _If_ was a terrible word.

”We’ll regroup,” he promised his men as they gathered around him, “and then we’ll make the traitors pay for this deception!”

A loud cheer went up.

Robb looked around for Roslin, but it seemed his mother had had the good sense to keep her out of sight. Despite his words to his men, he could not bring himself to think of her as a traitor. She’d saved him and his mother. _If_ not for her…

He’d send her back to her family on the morrow.

For the time being, though, his nerves were shot. His men began to retire for the night, but he doubted he could sleep, even without the cries of the wounded. He excused himself and, with Grey Wind at his side, wandered off into the forest. Silence and solitude were more appealing now than even the warmest, softest bed.

There was a stream nearby, an offshoot of the Forks. He’d made note of it earlier. The water was still and nearly black in the light of the crescent moon overhead. He stripped off his clothes, laid them on the grassy shore, and waded in. It was like a balm to his skin, washing away the sweat and dirt, his failure. His failure at everything.

He waded out up to his neck and then plunged into the current. He was used to the springs at Winterfell, but he was a Northerner after all and the chill did not bother him. He had swum in creeks much colder, on trips into the Wolfswood with his father, Jon, and Theon. Theon had been the one to teach him how to swim. Theon had—

A splash near shore brought his attention back. He thought at first it was Grey Wind, bounding impatiently in the shallows, but when he looked up, he saw the shape of Theon Greyjoy leaning against a tree, skipping stones along the moonlit water.

Robb swam closer to shore. “How long have you been there?”

“Longer than you. I was just sitting here, minding my own business, when along comes the King in the North, waving his kinghood around for everyone to see.”

Robb splashed water up at him. “How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Joke like that, even when everything’s gone wrong?”

“I’ve always been that way, Stark, or is this the first time you’ve ever heard of armor that wasn’t made of metal? Or leather?” He picked up another stone and held it in the palm of his hand, contemplating it. “I’ve been crafting my own armor since I was nine years old.”

Sometimes Theon could make him feel like such a naïve little boy. With just a few words, he could take Robb back to when they were children, with the older boy would hold some experience or other over his head—“You’ll understand when you’re older.”

Even now, he looked relaxed and comfortable, when Robb knew he couldn’t be.

“Join me?”

Theon dropped the rock he’d been holding. “A bit difficult to undress with manacles on.” He rattled his chain for Robb to hear. “Makes getting your sleeves off impossible.”

“I’ll have them removed as soon as I can. Tonight.” He treaded closer to the shallows. “You don’t need to wear them anymore. You’re not longer my prisoner.”

A wistful grin graced Theon’s face. “And here I was getting used to the idea of being _yours_.”

Robb swallowed around the knot that had mysteriously formed in his throat. He _had_ called Theon his, hadn’t he? Back at the Twins. In front of his mother and everyone. Perhaps he’d been thinking of Theon as his ever since his return. His _what_ , though?

“I’d prefer you were able to undress,” he answered, earning a shocked silence from the figure on the shore.

He’d been thinking about their encounter in the tent, what Theon had been offering. The man had clearly been desperate to get back into Robb’s good graces and had been willing to buy it with his body. At least, that was what Robb had assumed at the time. He didn’t dare hope that Theon actually _wanted_ it. Now, though…now he wasn’t sure of anything.

Then Theon gave a small laugh. “A man shouldn’t remain a virgin on his wedding night.”

“I didn’t get married.”

“But you’d _like_ to marry her.” He tossed his stone out across the water. It skipped three times before sinking, and he cursed under his breath. “I’ve seen it in your face when you look at her. You fall in love to easy, Robb Stark.”

Robb’s feet found the sandy river bottom. He pushed the wet hair from his eyes and began wading towards shore. He watched the way Theon watched him as he emerged. They’d seen each other naked countless times, and Robb resolved not to flinch as he stepped up onto the riverbank, completely bare. The water cascaded down his body to pool under his feet, leaving soggy footprints as he made his way to the tree where Theon watched motionlessly.

He knelt down slowly, asking permission. An imperceptible nod of the head, and Robb draped himself across Theon’s lap, legs straddling the other’s hips. They were nose-to-nose, eye-to-eye. Theon’s pupils were blown wide open, his breathing heavy through his nose.

“You saved my life today.” Robb brushed wet fingers through Theon’s hair. “I’m not in love with Roslin, and I’m not in love with Jeyne.”

“Robb…” Theon’s breath hitched as Robb ground into his lap. He had absolutely no experience with this, but that must have been good to get such a noise out of Theon.

“Tell me what to do.”

A keening noise escaped Theon’s throat as he leaned his head back. “Unchain me, Robb. Right now.”


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer for mild homophobic language, but it kind of goes hand-in-hand with the setting. If casual mentions of sexism haven't bothered you thus far, this probably won't bother you either.

Theon was sore all over, and even though Robb kissed at the chafed skin on his wrists where so recently the irons had been rubbing him raw, he couldn’t kiss at the burning ache inside left in the wake of their tryst. Not that Theon regretted anything, but the experience had given him a newfound sympathy for the girls he’d deflowered over the years.

Robb laced their fingers together and planted another kiss on the back of his hand. “Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Theon said, because it hadn’t been _Robb_ who’d hurt him. It had been his own hurry, his impatience and inability to wait. And even then, it hadn’t been…well, he’d definitely had worse. This was a hurt he could bear easily enough. “But next time, maybe more preparation before you go stuffing that loyalty-switching cock up my ass.”

“ _Next_ time?” Robb’s free hand dropped to Theon’s waist, the pad of his thumb working small circles into the jut of his hip. “Did you enjoy it, then?”

“Of course I did.” And that wasn’t a lie either. It had been different, certainly, but he could honestly say it had been intimate and satisfying in ways he hadn’t imagined—sitting atop Robb Stark, feeling the other deep inside him, their eyes meeting as their bodies moved together.

Afterwards, they’d curled up against each other. The pallet wasn’t really big enough for both of them, but they’d tangled their limbs together and made do. Their heads resting on the same pillow, Theon wondered what it all meant. Did he actually _enjoy_ being a “salt wife?” Well, fuck him, it wasn’t like he had any dignity left to lose. He could be Robb’s salt wife.

“What are we doing?” Robb asked suddenly.

Theon chuckled. “You’re asking _me_?”

“You said _next_ time. But I don’t know what next time is because I don’t _know_ what comes next.” He stopped moving his thumb against Theon’s hip and instead let his entire palm rest there, almost defeated. “We can’t go back to Winterfell. It’s been burned.”

“I _didn’t_ burn it, Robb.”

“And yet it’s been confirmed. _Someone_ set it to the torch.” He breathed out slowly through his nose, considering the possibilities. “There are still Ironborn in the North, though. Bolton says they’ve mostly fled back to the coast. Could some of your men have done it without you knowing?”

“They weren’t _my_ men.” They never had been. Though maybe Theon should be thanking them for dragging him out of Winterfell. Like as not, he’d be dead now otherwise, and while dying while making a final stand was certainly an appropriate fate for any Ironborn worth his salt, he would have never seen Robb again. “They were happy enough to leave it in one piece. And Asha…she didn’t want to risk your wrath over it. She wouldn’t risk it, and they certainly wouldn’t go against _her_ orders.”

It still hurt to think they’d accepted her over him. He was supposed to be the heir to the Iron Islands. Wasn’t that worth any of their respect? No? Then fuck it. He didn’t _need_ their respect. Not after all the trouble he’d gone through to get Robb’s back.

He propped himself up on his elbow. “Anyway, you’re not still taking reports from Bolton, are you? Maybe _he’s_ the one who burned Winterfell,” he joked, though Robb’s face grew serious.

“That’s the next thing. We can’t take Casterly Rock and we can’t advance on Kings Landing. We’ve lost a large portion of our army, now that Bolton has defected, to say nothing of the loss of our potential allies in the Freys.” He sighed and leaned heavily against the pillows. “We can’t go forward and we can’t retreat.”

Theon thought for a while. He still wasn’t sure if Robb wanted his opinion or if he was just unburdening himself to someone who would listen.

“You could surrender,” he suggested hesitantly.

“You want me to surrender to the Lannisters?”

“No, of course not. To Stannis Baratheon. Tell him you’re willing to bend the knee and beg forgiveness.” He could see the wound such a suggestion ignited in Robb’s pride, but Theon now knew a thing or two about begging forgiveness. “You won’t be King in the North anymore, but you could join your armies together to unseat that prick Joffrey.”

“What armies? Stannis’s forces were destroyed at the Black Water. Nobody’s heard from him in months.”

“Licking his wounds at Dragonstone, I guess. He won’t give up so easily, though.” He kissed Robb on the end of his nose, just to watch him blush as red as his hair. “And neither should you.”

 

***

 

The sun threw beams of light across the floor from the gap in the tent flap. A faint rustling and Grey Wind’s growl were all the warning Robb had before the flap was pulled back. “Your Grace—”

Robb sat up and threw his furs over Theon’s sleeping form. “Did I give you permission to enter?” he snapped at the faceless guard, who froze at the threshold. Had he seen anything? Even if he had, he’d be wise to make no mention of it.

“Sorry, Your Grace. Your lady mother requests your presence. It is a matter of great import.”

“I’ll see to it. Wait outside.”

The guard bowed and left with no indication he’d seen anything questionable.

As Robb swung his legs over the side of the cot, Theon stirred. “Leaving so soon, Your Grace?”

“Duty calls.” Robb pressed a kiss to his forehead before standing and dressing. First he had to untangle his clothes from Theon’s, then try to beat out the wrinkles as best he could. He wouldn’t be looking too kingly this morning, but he doubted his mother would care if this matter was as important as the guard made it out to be. “How are you feeling?”

“Like my arse is killing me,” Theon answered with a sleepy smile.

“Then stay in bed. I’ve got to go deal with something.”

“Go, then. Deal.” He pulled the furs over his head and rolled over. Only a messy mop of dark hair poked out. Robb gave one last kiss to the top of his head before tightening the lacing of his jerkin and following Grey Wind from the tent.

The day was sunny, like no slaughter had happened at all the night before. The camp bore all the signs, though: the groaning of the wounded, the smell of rotting flesh, the occasional body set aside for burial. He wondered if they planned to bury Dacey or return her remains to Bear Island. He wished, as he always did after battle, that there was more time to grieve for fallen friends.

He found his mother’s tent and entered to find a man he had not been expecting. He knew the Lannisters’ Hound immediately from King Robert’s visit to Winterfell—if not by his hideous, half-burned face then by his stature. He towered over everyone there: Catelyn, Edmure, the Greatjon, the young boy at his side.

Upon seeing him enter, the boy detached from the Hound and them himself at Robb. Robb staggered back as arms encircled his waist and an excited voice yelled, “Robb!”

He looked down at the boy—shaggy brown hair, long face, grey eyes. No, it couldn’t be. He glanced to his mother, whose tear-filled eyes and smile told him he was right. It couldn’t be, but it was.

“Arya?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm splitting my original story into two parts, and this seemed like a natural enough stopping point. I have no idea when I'll be able to work on the second part, but I might be posting more one-shots in the between. I love rare pairs, so if anyone wants to toss out a suggestion (M/F, M/M, F/F, threesomes, I'm not picky) I'll see if it tickles my muse.
> 
> Thanks again for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologize if I get any canon facts wrong. I don't have my books to go back to and check because *someone* gave them all away to, like, orphans or something. And not just my Song of Ice and Fire. All my Tolkein, Asimov, Terry Pratchett, Douglas Adams, Tad Williams, etc. They're all in the grubby little hands of orphans now. You make me sick, *someone*.


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